


25 Days of Fic

by Hectopascal



Category: Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Daryl Remains An Awkward Sap At Heart, Gratuitous Abuse of Christmas Themes, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-12
Updated: 2014-02-12
Packaged: 2018-01-12 02:33:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1180882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hectopascal/pseuds/Hectopascal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>25 Christmas Themed Rickyl challenges.</p>
<p>1.Mistletoe</p>
            </blockquote>





	25 Days of Fic

Daryl’s never been all that good with planning long term, but he’s always been skilled with his hands. Not, everything considered, a great combination for an impulsive kid with anger management issues. Give him a screwdriver, a busted CD player, some electrical tape, and five minutes of privacy and he can cobble together something that’ll take out a couple blocks of power.

He won’t stop to think whether or not he _should_ until after the deed is done and there are men in uniforms knocking at the door and cars with sirens and flashing lights parked crookedly on the curb outside his house. Then, when the handcuffs come out, he might think, _Shit. Shouldn’t’ve done that._

But the very next time he’ll do the same. He doesn’t stop and think. He can’t. He _acts_ and sometimes that’s a good thing, but usually his moves tend to snowball into a juvenile delinquent detention center ridden catastrophe. 

Daryl hurtles forward regardless of the obstacles standing in his way, unburdened by second thoughts and self-doubt. He’s intelligent enough to work through or around the barriers, if he’s got the patience for it, if the _go, go, go now_ jitter isn’t too bad that day. Otherwise he’ll jump over, or smash through, and more often than not it’s the obstacle that gives way instead of Daryl, not to say that it doesn’t happen the other way around sometimes.

Those times he stumbles and falls back, bleeding and bruised even if the injury is done only to his pride and not his body. He gets angry, irrationally so according to anybody else, but to Daryl it’s a perfectly reasonable reaction to failure. It’s having his worst flaws spit in his face, hearing them in his older brother’s voice.

It’s like having Merle, who is strong and confident and fiendishly sly when it suits him, mock him for being too stupid, too slow. _Not good enough_ , Merle says, shaking his head sadly, giving him a sarcastic round of applause, _are ya really surprised? Yer a failure, Darlenna. Always have been. Always will be. Better be thankful ya got me to look out for yer worthless ass or you’da kicked it years back_.

Is it any wonder that having that insidious whisper in his ears drives Daryl into fits of temper that can be frightening with their scale and intensity? If anything, Daryl has more self-control during those failure-induced rages than any other time. He needs it most then, to make sure he doesn’t accidently murder some luckless fool who stumbles across his path. A target is a target is a target. Daryl’s humiliated wrath needs an outlet and if one presents itself then his ire can switch focuses in a snap, from himself to anyone or anything.

But that doesn’t happen often, simply because he doesn’t fall short all that often in the grand scheme of things. Success, reaching whatever goal he sets for himself, or is set for him by others, no matter the difficulty, is commonplace for him because anything else fails to register in his mind as a viable option.

Daryl’s got something new that needs to get done now. _Needs_ may be a bit of a stretch, but Daryl rarely wants anything for himself and he wants this, ergo he’s going to get it by whatever means necessary. It feels like a necessity anyway, taking huge bites out his chest with needle-like teeth when he isn’t paying close enough attention, leaving his insides raw and irritable. 

The sucker punch of catching a glimpse of his desire and thinking, warm and satisfied, _this is mine_ , followed by the bucket of cold water realization that, _fuck, this isn’t mine_ , may well be one of the most depressing sensations ever. It makes him grind his teeth and want to break things and stew for hours in a cauldron of unrest and misery. It leaves him with an itch between his shoulder blades that informs him twenty-four seven, as if he could forget, that there is something not right with the world.

He’s through with putting up with it, with keeping his mouth shut because he’s too chickenshit to risk screwing this up. Daryl’s going to make his move. It comes to him when he’s trudging home after work and he passes an elaborate display case for a store with employees who clearly have too much time on their hands.

Inspiration strikes like lighting and Daryl comes to a dead stop, staring with narrowed eyes at the illuminated presentation as a series of tumblers unlock and fall away in his mind as a key turns and a door swings open on a possibility. It’s rough, undefined, but with a little elbow grease it can shine and Daryl’s never been one afraid of putting work into something when he thought it was worth the effort. 

His hands plunge into his pockets without pause and find his wallet, a stroke of luck because he doesn’t usually carry it on his person. He has the means. He _definitely_ has the motive. Now all he has to do is grab the incorporeal with both hands and drag it into reality. With a little help from the corporeal form of a few purchases.

The look on Rick’s face is indescribable when Daryl opens his front door. He’s never actually invited Rick into his home before. A majority of the time they hang out together, they spend out in public or at Rick’s place and, displaying tact Daryl’s never seen applied anywhere else, Rick’s never pushed to be allowed the reciprocal courtesy.

His friend’s eyes blow wide, white showing all around the brown of his irises. No doubt some of that is surprise—because who wouldn’t be?—but Daryl really, really hopes it isn’t tinged with panic. He’s anxious enough for the both of them even if he doesn’t show it, and can’t spare the headspace to worry about Rick freaking out on top of it.

Daryl glances up, then around the inside of his house, wincing a bit because he’d been operating under the assumption that overkill was underrated when he’d been setting the place up. Looking at it now with a fresh, overly paranoid, gaze he can see how it might come off instead as way too strong if not outright psycho.

That label has been applied to Daryl more than once in the past, not that he paid it any mind, but he sincerely hopes that Rick isn’t about to do the same because it may actually crush him and God, if Daryl’s ever been more vulnerably open to rejection in his entire life than he is in this moment he’ll eat his shoes.

Springs of green leaves and sprinkles of bright, red berries hang above, in addition to the front door itself, every doorway visible in the hall and all the doorways _not_ visible from the hall as well. There is a bundle suspended from both light fixtures, swaying in the slight breeze from the ajar front door on the thin, black strings Daryl painstakingly tied them up with. 

The whole place smells strongly of spearmint. Daryl has accustomed himself to it and forgotten how overpowering it can be. He remembers the second Rick’s nose wrinkles and Daryl is morbidly surprised that he hasn’t been simply bowled over by it because that seems to be in the same luckless vein this whole thing has been going.

Rick finally locates the mistletoe above the front door and stares at it as if it will disappear the moment he takes his eyes off it. Daryl doesn’t think he’s blinked once. He barely seems to be breathing. Rick’s face is curiously slack, an expression that makes him look rather stupid, but one Daryl’s learned means that he’s thinking about something hard.

Daryl swallows and fists his hands at his sides so he doesn’t give in to the urge to wring them together. He’d blindsided Rick with this, quite literally out of nowhere, because his friend is an idiot when it comes to matters of the heart and even if he wasn’t Daryl hasn’t been all that obvious about where he stood concerning Rick’s love life, namely wanting to be it. Not a part of it, but _it_. Completely. He wants to wrap Rick around himself, clutch him so tightly that he’ll never go anywhere else, but he’s always been awful with words so he can’t just come out and say it.

Apparently he’s an idiot too because this is the best he can come up with—copious amounts of a plant that screams “KISS ME”—and if it doesn’t work…well, then he’ll just have to think of something else to try because he isn’t giving up that easy. Daryl’s made up his mind and now that he has nothing will budge him. He just needs to know where to go from here and if that means waiting, giving Rick tine to process the implied change in their relationship, then so be it.

Rick’s lips firm, his jaw tightens, and he blinks. His eyes are suddenly clear and focused on Daryl, dark and bottomless like he might get sucked into them if he isn’t careful, deep and liquid enough for a person to drown in. For a surreal moment, Daryl thinks he sees just that happening before he realizes that it’s just the reflection of his own face.

_Get it together, Dixon,_ he tells himself firmly. 

Daryl takes in Rick’s hands, balled into fists, and deliberately relaxes his own. If he’s about to get decked then he doesn’t want to risk loose teeth because he was too tense and he doesn’t need to be prepared to strike back because he isn’t going to hurt Rick. Not ever. Besides, Rick has never been the violent type, so it isn’t too likely that he’s about to take a swing, but then there’s a first time for everything.

Daryl’s prepared to take a hit, something he’s never really worried about before coming from Rick, and he doesn’t much like doing it now. He’s half-braced for the sharp shock of a blow, resigned to the ache that spiked quickly but lingered for days afterward, a miniature maelstrom beneath his skin, roaring louder if touched the wrong way.

He is ready for violence, but that isn’t what he gets.

Rick takes one step forward (Daryl stubbornly refuses to retreat) into his personal space and ends up standing directly on top of the threshold. He looks at the mistletoe hanging over his head—small and flimsy, but it may as well be a guillotine—then meets Daryl’s eyes and raises his eyebrows. He tilts his head back, just a little, the gesture not superior, but somehow expectant. The _Well?_ his posture exudes is so obvious Daryl could be blind and not mistake it for anything but what it is.

_Well?_ Rick’s eyes ask and Daryl’s mouth goes dry. He raises a hand to touch Rick’s face with too-clumsy fingers, waiting for a flinch that never comes. Rick lets him brush a thumb beneath his left eye and his gaze remains steady even as Daryl’s cups his cheek and he turns, just a little, into his hand. 

Daryl can feel the line of Rick’s jaw beneath his palm, the soft curls of his hair against his fingers, and the faintest _th-thump_ of his heartbeat, going a beat too fast. He can’t remember the last time he took a breath, but that’s okay, because he doesn’t really need to breathe right now. He feels shaky enough as it is—it’s a miracle his hands aren’t trembling—and trying to actually coordinate a rhythmic inhale/exhale may be his undoing. 

Daryl leans forward, eyes wide open, turning Rick’s head so when their lips meet it is smooth and careful. Rick watches him the whole while. He could pull away at any time, but he doesn’t. His lips are closed and so are Daryl’s, but he can _feel_ them and it’s incredible. Daryl never knew how sensitive the lips could be until now, when he’s internally marveling over the smoothness of Rick’s, how warm they are, how amazingly soft. 

He could probably spend hours tracing them with his fingers, mapping every centimeter of them until he knows them by heart. He’d get them wet eventually, with Rick’s saliva or his own, and then watch them glisten like he knows they will, succulent and ripe for the taking. And he’d take, there was no question about it. He’d take everything Rick’s willing to give.

Distantly, Daryl thinks it should be awkward. Everything he’s ever seen, ever been told indicates that one is supposed to close their eyes when kissing, but he doesn’t want to. He wants to see Rick like this, intimately closer than he’s ever been before, badly blurred by proximity and all. He wants to remember this moment, right now, forever.

After what feels like a small eternity, but is actually only a few seconds, he needs to breathe. He can exhale through his nose, try to prolong the kiss, but it seems…weird to do with Rick’s face right there, so Daryl drags himself away and stares at Rick for a long moment. His friend is blushing—Daryl thinks he probably is too, can’t remember if he’s ever done that before, doesn’t want to know if he has—his eyes gone wide again, but not quite so large as they had when he had first arrived.

Rick opens his mouth to say something, pauses, then closes it and shakes his head a little like he’s trying to brush away residual fuzziness. Daryl freezes, wondering what the hell he’s going to do now, is about to say something, he has no idea what, but most likely it’ll be something he regrets the moment it leaves his mouth.

Rick beats him to it.

“You gonna invite me in?” he asks, and his voice is not quite steady. It sounds normal enough to someone who doesn’t know him well, but Daryl is not that someone. He can hear the slight huskiness to it, the edge of nervousness, and it, remarkably, makes him feel a bit better because he’s not the only one with no clue what he’s doing.

“Yeah.” Daryl steps back, swings the door wide, and lets Rick into his house. Rick takes another step, bringing him out from under the mistletoe, and doesn’t blink an eye at the rest of it while Daryl closes the door behind him. Daryl knows he should let it go, whatever deity allowed him to get this far can’t have endless patience, so it’d be better not to push, but he can’t help himself.

“Rick,” he starts and then bites his lip because what is he planning on saying that doesn’t make him sound like a retard, really? “Y’know, I—”

“Okay.” Rick cuts in.

Daryl blinks at him, caught off guard by the averted travesty that was him attempting to vocalize emotions.

“Okay,” Rick shrugs, “Yes.” He looks uncertain for a moment. “Unless this isn’t—?”

“It is.” Daryl says quickly.

“Then okay.” Rick says it like that is the end of the matter.

“Ya don’t wanna,” Daryl coughs and flaps a hand, “talk or whatever?”

Rick gives him an eloquent look and Daryl feels almost abashed. They’ve never talked about the things that really mattered. They’ve never needed to. He’s not sure why now would be any different. Rick has always been quick. It had been getting him wised up on certain topics that was the difficult part. 

“You feelin’ all right?” Rick asks, not at all seriously. He’s poking fun at Daryl and he knows it.

“Shaddup,” Daryl grumbles and Rick grins at him, making him feel three times lighter.

“Want to watch a movie or something?” Rick is _still_ smiling and Daryl thinks, scowling, that he’d give into just about anything to keep it directed at him.

“Sure. No Bond though,” Daryl goes to lead the way to the television, vetoing the crappy James Bond movies Rick always manages to find, no matter how few channels he has to work with, on general principle that this day is going too good for it to have that much suck in it at this point, and then stops.

Because Rick?

Rick is leaning against the nearest arch, looking like he hasn’t a care in the world, with a spring of mistletoe hanging innocently above him. If it weren’t for the forced casualness of Rick’s pose, Daryl might believe he isn’t aware of it, but the small smile playing around his mouth is a dead giveaway. No way does Daryl trashing his favorite genre of movie inspire that much amusement in him.

Daryl feels himself smile back, even as he walks over to meet him. It’s not as alluring as Rick’s, he has no doubt, but it’s as honest as he can make it.

They don’t actually manage to make it to the movie watching stage of events for a while yet. They get…distracted a couple of times along the way. 

Rick is suddenly very interested in knowing exactly where Daryl placed every bundle of mistletoe and Daryl is ready to oblige him, up until the point he gets frustrated with waiting the time between locations and just pins him up against a wall, murmuring low and heavy in Rick’s ear, delighting in the shiver it provokes, “Ya want a kiss, all ya gotta do is ask.” 

Rick doesn’t, technically, _stop_ asking, possibly because he’s not coherent enough to form words or can’t get the air for it. He doesn’t seem to care either way though. He is perfectly content surrounded by Daryl, who is likewise satisfied with exercising his new ability to touch Rick however much he pleased. 

It’s Christmas after all. ‘Tis the season to be merry. And, Daryl smiles salaciously against Rick’s skin, they are going to get _very_ merry.

**Author's Note:**

> This had to be done. I remain unapologetic.


End file.
